The Tavern Affair
by Evelyn Turner
Summary: Mare & Cal meet in the local tavern, when a desperate Mare foolishly reaches into the pockets of none other than the Crown Prince. Cal maintains the facade of a Red servant to fit in with the Red girl with a big chip on her shoulder and an even bigger secret. A war begins erupting around them, forcing everyone's dark deceptions into the painful light.
1. Introduction

**THE TAVERN AFFAIR**

 **Disclaimer:** _All characters and references therein associated with The Red Queen and Glass Sword belong to Victoria Aveyard._

 **Rating:** _M for mature language, mature themes. (If you are comfortable with the rating of Silhouettes, this story will be on par.)_

 **Mare and Cal meet in the local tavern, when a bold and desperate Mare foolishly reaches into the pockets of none other than the Crown Prince of Norta. Cal maintains the facade of a Red servant to fit in with the Red girl with a big chip on her shoulder. Everything about her is disarming and alluring, but Mare herself has her own secrets as she reigns in a Silver ability that no Red should possess, let alone a Red who is slowly becoming the voice of a revolution known as the Scarlet Guard. A war begins erupting around them, forcing everyone's dark deceptions into the painful light. Friend against friend, brother against brother, lover against lover.**

 **No one is safe. No one is innocent.**

A/N - Hello! If you've come over from my first RQ story, _Silhouettes_ , then thank you so much for following me here! Happy to have you, and I hope you stay. I'm a bit mad to be writing two fanfictions at once, I know this, but this has been spinning in my head for months now, and I finally acquiesced to give it the time of day. This story alternates between two POVs, Mare's and Cal's. I do not commit to an upload schedule, because that would just guarantee disappointment for all of us. I try to update at least once every two weeks, and I hope that juggling two stories will not change that.

If you would like to follow me on Twitter for updates on upcoming chapters, music I'm listening to while writing, sneak peeks, and author-reader interaction, you can find me at evelynturnerff.


	2. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER 1 – MARE POV**

 _I'm actually brushing my hair. I can't believe I'm brushing my hair for this._ Ever since I met mystery Cal at the Tavern last night, I've been anxious for the evening hours so I can see him again. I don't even know that he'll be there, but if he is, I could do with looking shades better than I did last night. Literally shades since I've scrubbed the dirt off of me.

I'm glad I followed my better judgment for once and kept my mouth shut last night. Cal gives me an uneasy feeling, though I should be nothing but grateful for his generosity. Two tetrarchs tossed to me as if there were of no consequence. I know he said he had a good job, but what good job pays out clean coins of that value to a Red? Even Gisa's job didn't pay enough, and she was the best at what she does. With that reminder, my stomach churns in disgust with myself over yesterday's events. I could have gotten Gisa killed. As it is, she will be out of commission for months at the very least, which puts my family with less of an income, and besides, Gisa isn't meant to stay home all day. She has a passion for her craft, and this injury will cost her apprenticeship—perhaps permanently. Now I hold a cold tetrarch in my hand and have to collect another one thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine crowns to free Kilorn and me from conscription. An impossible feat.

I know Dad isn't angry with me from our conversation last night, but I won't allow myself to create the illusion that he and Mom aren't deeply disappointed in me. Not surprising. They have been disappointed since day one, and I keep finding new embarrassments for them. If Tramy and Bree were here, no doubt they would kick my ass for what happened to G. They would blame me, too, which leaves my dearest brother, Shade. Would he be upset with me? No, I genuinely don't think so. I think he would recognize the pain and guilt I will inflict on myself indefinitely for what I've done, and he would be the one to offer solace in the form of acceptance and forgiveness.

My plan was to head to the Tavern a bit earlier than usual and steal from the pockets of the early drunks making their way home at a decent hour. The pennies I get are enough for a few beers that take the edge off. There isn't anything of value amongst these men, and it turns out that cleaning myself up has worked against my favor. As I look more feminine with bare minimum \effort put into my appearance tonight, I might as well have put a spotlight right on me. Men notice and they leer. When they aren't leering, they are buying me drinks and attempting to chat me up. Looking around, I see it's because I am the only female patron on this Wednesday night. _Great._

"Piss off," I order one heavy drunk who has made his way over to my semi-dark alcove more than once. His temper gets the better of him, resulting in a putrid display of public intoxication highlighted only by his stumbles and eventual fall to the floor. I don't even have it in me to laugh—not because this isn't funny, but the effort it would take to smile is too heavy a burden. I'm out drinking ale and hiding from my family while my brothers are off to war or at home in tears over everything they have lost. _Good riddance I'm away_ , I bet.

At a quarter past 12, later than I stayed last night, I resign that I won't be seeing Cal again. I can tell myself all I want that he isn't the reason I came here, so I do. Maybe he doesn't want to come across his charity case that would empty him of another two crows. I feel like a damn fool. _He came here for a drink, and you tried to steal from him. He took pity on you, that's all. And here you are back hoping he'll talk with the poor thief._

When I get up to leave, I stumble for a bit, but it is easily cured with the crisp air. Despite the impending close of summer, this time of night always has a chill. Of course I don't have a sweater. Last year's was a hand-me-down to Gisa after she struggled through the winter going to and from work. I figured she needed it more than me, and she wore it thin to threadbare. I suppose this year I will need to steal her one, and me too if I can manage it. Which I can, because I'm the best thief there is in these parts.

 _How have I not moved?_ I shake the buzz out of my head as best I can, but truth be told I'm a lightweight and the vigorous shaking is doing nothing but making my head spin worse. The hike back home through trails along the forests gives me an uneasy paranoia that I normally do not possess. Those Silvers back at Summerton turned on Reds so quickly; maybe they are just as hostile tonight, itching for another Red murder. I recall the boy drowning in the fountain by a couple of nymphs. They were vicious like I've never seen before. They can be cruel, that I know of Silvers, but this was…heartless. Soulless. It was then I realized we will never be seen as human to them. We would never hold value beyond servitude. A people-carpet for them to step on so they don't dirty their boots.

I don't realize I'm crying until a harsh wind turns the warm trails of tears cold on my cheeks. At the same time I sniffle, I hear the distinct crackling of branches behind me. I don't think, I don't even look back. I run. I'm sure of my feet on any given day, but tonight they are not sure of me. The alcohol has made me slower, clumsier. I'm still faster than my follower, but it's the clumsy part that does me in. My foot catches on a dead branch and I stumble spectacularly forward onto exposed tree roots. I don't stop there; on instinct, I roll to my side and accidentally roll too far to my right, flipping over in an impressive splay of limbs down a steep hill. Boisterous laughter resounds in the back—the drunk from the pub.

 _Shit. Shitshitshit._ I cannot manage to scramble to anything but my hands and knees, but crawling away is the best I can do so I do it with maximum effort. It doesn't take long before the drunkard is picking me up by my shoulders while I kick and gurgle a muffle scream. Mom has told me horror stories of what happens to Red girls at night, but it's never happened in the Stilts, and it's never, ever at the hands of another Red. We take care of our own. We protect our own. We—

The contents of my stomach, violently churned by fear and adrenaline, splatter all over the ground beneath me, but the bastard doesn't let go. His arms are wrapped around me to pin mine to my side, and with that comes a painful squeezing on my ribs that has me choking on my own vomit. My eyes burn with tears and the stench of his breath against my cheek, but just when I think the worst is to come, a brilliant flash of purple and white light knocks us both over, separating us by a good fifteen feet.

It takes me a moment to gather my bearings. What _was that?_ The pudgy man lies on the ground slack-jawed and unconscious. I want to run, I _should_ run, but I've never killed a man before and… _Oh my god, what if I've killed him? Did I do that-that light thing? Will they know it was me? How could they? I could tell them he attacked me first. But then they would see me in Summerton yesterday, and-and-_

 **– CAL POV** **–**

I shouldn't be out wandering Red villages this late. I didn't go to the tavern tonight—not because I didn't think I'd see her there, but because I _hoped_ she would be. A Red girl with a name she wouldn't give me even after I gave her mine.

 _Not really. You gave her your nickname. A cop out._ But I can't just go telling her I'm the Crown Prince of Norta, now can I? I don't know this girl. She's a self-proclaimed thief and showed little remorse in it. What if she is one of _them_? I shake my head at the thought. She wouldn't be a part of that. I saw the look in her eyes last night. She saw firsthand the riot that broke out in Summerton. It scared her. She didn't elaborate on why she was there or how she made it out, but there was no mistaking the fear marring her otherwise lovely features.

 _Lovely. She was covered in dirt and grime. Tattered clothes. Worn boots._ A typical village Red, but with the confidence of a Silver and a wit like I've not heard from any the rest of her kind or even many of mine for that matter. I would know; I observe them often to understand what they do when they aren't under the watch of Silvers that intimidate and, admittedly, occasionally bully them. The drunk ones may be raucous, but they keep among themselves and maintain an air of reservation. Patrons that have established a friendship born of regular Tavern attendance and common struggles still don't spill their secrets.

But she _wanted_ to. I could tell by the way her mouth opened and shut during long pauses in our exchange. I could tell in the way her eyes were crystal clear and unguarded, and I swear I could feel the vulnerability radiating from her like a gift she never offered to another soul. She wanted to give that to me. She wanted to open up and spill her world to me, and what's more intriguing is that I wanted to take that weight off of her. I don't even know the girl, and yet I _wanted_ to know everything about her.

So that's how I've found myself wandering the streets instead of wandering the tavern. I'm on the path between her village and the bar, but it is far too late for her to be out anyway, which must mean she wasn't there to begin with. She didn't strike me as the kind of girl who spends her nights with dirty men in a crowded bar, even if she was only stalking the shadows looking to rake in measly coins. I would be lying if I did not admit that I was looking forward to seeing her tonight, but I think it's also for the best. I like the girl, but she's a Red. And I'm not just a Silver which would automatically void any friendship between us, I'm a royal Silver. Would she really care about that?

 _Gee, a desperate, impoverished Red girl resorting to stealing from bar patrons to scrape by while nearing conscription?_

Yeah, she'd care.

I could always get her a job as a servant to the Royal house. Job security, good pay, and simple work. There are so many of them it's quite easy for them to blend in. They refill a water here, clear a plate there, make a bed, tidy a bathroom. It certainly could be worse as far as jobs go, and she said there aren't any jobs around.

 _She_. I really have to get her name.

In the still quiet of a Nortan night, it's hard to miss the sounds surrounding me—particularly with my soldier's training. I hear it all, and when I hear a muffled yelp and what sounds like a struggle, I am quick on my feet running toward it. A flash of brilliant light startles me, but it's exactly where I'm headed. That can't be a coincidence. I realize at the last moment I should conceal the small flames flickering in my palms. I don't want to draw more attention to myself than necessary, especially if drawing _any_ attention to myself is wholly _unnecessary_. If it's a Red scuffle, I can just as easily be on my way.

Peering over the edge of the hill tells me enough. From the looks of it, there was a brawl, with one man lying on the ground, groaning as he comes to, and a figure hovering over him. When I step to the side, the moonlight reveals more of the figure. Feminine. Long hair and definitely curves of a woman. She looks smaller-easily a third his size. Why is she standing over him like that? Do they know one another? I shrug it off to another Red thing: two drunk lovers playing around in the middle of the night in the woods, but then she screams. And though I shouldn't, I know that sound instinctively. It's _her_.


	3. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER 2 – CAL POV**

I'm a fast runner, but I cannot get to her for the life of me. Every branch, every steep dip in the dirt prevents a straight-shot to her, all while her cries for help are broken only when he shoves her face into the leaves-smothered ground. _I will kill him_. Even if she knows the guy, I will rip his fucking head off. _Shit, what if it's her boyfriend?_ Should I get involved? The King-to-be asshole in me tells me to walk away, that this is none of my business, and I should not even be here. Father would be embarrassed if I were to intervene with the Reds. Let them sort their own troubles or take it to their local officers. It's a cold way of thinking, but it is the brutal truth of our division. I can't just walk away now though. I _know_ it's her; even if it wasn't, I could never leave a woman in harm's way just because an archaic Royal duty suggested it.

"What did you do?! What did you do you fucking bitch?"

"Please…get off me, please!"

With a roar I grab him by the back neck of his jacket and throw him off of her. He lands at least ten feet away against a tree with a resounding _thud_ that silences her shaky breaths and whispers. I don't even look back at him. Fuck him.

"Are you okay?" I go to wrap my arms around her without thinking, but she steps back with another gasp. _Thank god one of us has some sense. Keep your distance, Calore._ Still, in the back of my head in a vague way, the gesture stings.

"Hey… it's me. It's Cal, from last night. We met last night."

I watch her eyes flit from the lump of a loser in the distance and back to me, in one, two, three passes before finally settling on me. She looks so frightened, and I'm surprised to admit to myself that it makes my heart race.

"Sorry, right. Right. Cal. You caught me with my hand down your pants."

I'm shocked by her brazen levity. Totally shocked and amazed that in this moment she can crack a joke. My face must show it because she laughs after watching me shuffle on my feet, nervous, speechless, and utterly captivated. I wish I could stop time to hear that sound come from her again. When words find me at last, I ask if she's okay.

She wipes her nose with the back of her hand, only then do I see blood smear across her cheek. She must notice it for the first time, too, because a whispered 'oh god' and she turns away to look at her hand and assess the damage privately.

"Hey," I gently touch her shoulder to let her know my intention and thankfully she obliges. I turn her around to me a pull a handkerchief from my pocket to look at her uninjured hand and back to her face. It's her nose that's bleeding, possibly from where it hit the ground. At first she protests my attempt to wipe it off, but when I try for a second time more firmly, she lets me hold the cloth to her nose until the bleeding stops. Before I can pull my hand away, she grabs my hand to look at the cloth carefully. There's a good bit of blood on it, so she finds a clean corner, presses her tongue to it briefly, and guides my hand to clean off her cheek where she's previously smeared it.

I wouldn't classify myself as squeamish, but her boldness again catches me off guard. "That could have been dirty."

"A guy carrying around tetrarchs, rescuing girls in the woods, doesn't carry dirty pocket cloths. Or do you do this sort of thing often?"

I chuckle softly. "No, not often. Did you, uh, know that guy?"

The contemptuous look she throws the unconscious man suggests she does not.

She turns to climb up the hill, taking off with a mumbled, "I need to get home." She steps with a slight favoring toward her right side, one I didn't see yesterday, so I know she's hurt her ankle or leg somehow. Should I offer to carry her? Is that the right thing to do, or is it inappropriate? Just when I'm about to offer, she come to an abrupt halt and turns on her good heel toward me. "I need you to carry me up there. I can make it home on the straight path, but this hill is too steep and I can't see shit."

I don't know why her swearing both upsets me and turns me on. No Silver women swear; at least not publicly. It's unladylike and Lady Blonos, our etiquette mistress, would dish out a number of lashings to the offender, surely. Nothing out of this girls' mouth is anything I expect. She's blunt, she drinks and swears, she fended off her attacker—

"What did he mean by asking you what you did to him?" Gingerly, I place one arm across the back of her shoulders and the other just behind her thighs and scoop her up into my arms. She's a petite little thing: lightweight, lithe, short. That guy was easily three times her size. He may have gotten a few hits in, no doubt she'll be sore tomorrow, but my stomach churns at what could have happened.

In my arms I feel her tense, but she only shrugs. I'm inclined to believe her. She sniffs once, but the moonlight does very little to illuminate her features enough to see if it's because she's crying. I quickly move the subject along. "Well, whatever you did, it incapacitated him enough just before I got there to buy you some time."

"I'm just glad you were there at all," she whispers hoarsely, and I know she's holding back tears. It breaks me. I pull her a little closer to my chest on instinct, relishing her warmth and how she finally relaxes in my arms and lays her head against my chest. She's soft and pliable, she smells of roses but not the perfume kind or the ones grown all prim and proper meant for display. It's…I don't know, earthier. _Woodsy_ , that's it. She smells like wild roses you smell faintly in the woods when the crisp air of nature fills your senses, almost disguising the subtle hint of floral sweetness that promises of beauty.

 _For fuck's sake, Calore. I have got to clear my head. She's a Red. Does she think I'm a Silver? I doubt it. She wouldn't want anywhere near me if she knew._

 _You did the dutiful thing. She's a subject of your kingdom, and a good King would look after the best interests of his subjects. And the best interest in that moment was to disable the perpetrator and save the victim._

When I've returned us to the path, I'm not ready to set her down. I feel her soft and pliable in arms, with a rhythmic and soothing movement coming from her even breathing. She's asleep, leaving me with limited options. I can't very well leave her here, but I don't want to wake her just yet. She said she was from the village last night, but she didn't state what village. The closest one, I forget the name, would likely be the most logical guess. It's the only one within a relatively short walking distance of twenty minutes, whereas the others are just over an hour. After a quick assessment of our direction, I head off down the trail that would take us to what I hope is her home.

In my arms, she snores so quietly I almost don't hear it, but once I do, I realize it sounds exactly like Uncle Julian's cat when he snuggles in my lap and purrs with cheek scratches. When my chuckle at the comparison wakes her, she stretches without realizing where she is and almost startles herself right out of my arms.

"Woah! Woah, hey, it's okay. I've got you. Careful."

Through sleep-heavy lids, she blinks a few times to wake her. "Sorry I didn't realize, I thought I was dreaming but no. That shit really did happen."

Her sleepy voice is groggy and adorable. _God, grow a pair._ "You fell asleep during the hill climb, so I had to do my best to guess where you live. We're nearing it now if you want to take a look."

"You can set me down now. I can walk."

I do as she asks, immediately colder from the sure and safe weight of her in my arms. She limps again when she continues along the path, though to her credit, she disguises it well.

"Are you from the Stilts as well? I've never seen you around."

The what? "Ah, um, no. Is that where we're headed, where you live?"

She nods and points ahead. Then I notice scattered homes, very small homes from the look of it, sat high on rickety stilts. How do they live like this? Any one of these could collapse with a slight breeze.

"Very poignantly named the Stilts," she continues. "It floods here every Spring, hence…" She waves her hands at the ten foot beams supporting 500 square foot homes. "Well, here I am."

She stops at a nondescript entry into town, with no telling which of these homes are hers. She answers my unspoken question for me. "I can take it from here. No offense but...I don't know you, despite sleeping with you for fifteen minutes."

Incredulous. Unnerved. Embarrassed. That's how I feel when I smoothly retort, "You slept. I was awake and carrying you for two miles, one of which was uphill." The corner of her lips quirk up into a smirk.

"Yeah, yeah. You seem really put out by it," she shrugs, but I see right through it. Surprisingly, because she's an unpredictable mystery to me in so many other ways. Her lighthearted comment disguises her gratitude and, if I put my finger on it correctly, she _does_ feel guilty for what she thinks was putting me out. Little does she know I had been waiting for her but damned if I'll tell her that. I will, however, ease her guilty conscience to affirm she is in no way responsible.

"It was my pleasure. I'm sorry it came under bad circumstances, but I am glad you're safe, and I'm glad it was me who was there." I watch her chew on those words to find the sincere double-meaning behind them. The more time I spend with her, the more I feel like I am figuring out how her brain works. It's the most fascinating experience. As for her, I feel like she's been figuring me out since day one.

She doesn't know what to say, so she simply nods and smiles. She walks backwards a few steps, saying a sing-song "Goodnight" before turning around and walking dead-center down the road instead of the sidewalks meant for walking.

"Wait! I didn't get your name!" I jog forward a couple steps, easily closing the distance she accumulated. "I mean, it seems rude not to know the name of the girl who slept with you."

When she rolls her eyes, it's with humor and light. "Mare."

I grin my best panty-dropping smile at her. If she is fazed by it, she doesn't show it, but I swear I see her shoulders hitch just a fraction. "Goodnight, Mare."

I watch her until I can no longer see her silhouette in the dark, but call it intuition, gut feeling, whatever, I know she made it home safely.

I can't wait to see her again already.

* * *

 **A/N - Thank you so much for all of the reviews, follows, and support! I'm so glad you're liking it. I cannot wait to dive into this story with you. This is fluff and feels a few days early to kick off your weekend. Next chapter on Monday.**


	4. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER 3 – MARE POV**

The next day I wake up, sore and disheveled, blinded by the midday sun. Seriously, blinded, because the moment I open my eyes, the bright sunlight beams right into my eyeballs and burns so bad they start to water. I grumble several curses to myself inside my head so I don't have to move any more of my body. Just opening and shutting my eyes has been a hardship enough. With the blanket thrown over my head, my world becomes dark and cozy and cave-like again, and I start to sink back into dreams of boys with cooler skin and piercing eyes hidden by dim light. The warm midday means I start to sweat under the piles of blankets; mostly these belong to Gisa, who always wakes before me and shrouds me with her own bedding since my bed is much thinner and worse for wear than hers.

In this nice in-between, I can day dream about last night. The shittier parts I'll leave out, and instead I concentrate on the smell of Cal's cologne. It smells rich and woodsy like the annual winter festival. I want to love that festival for the colorful lights adorning rows of trees making an impressive display in the center of town. Being the Stilts under the governorship of a House Welle, our trees are the tallest and lavishly decorated from tip to trunk. I _want_ to love the ceremony, but the sacrifice for such a beautiful tradition is throttled electricity. Can't just give the people nice lights to look at for one month in their miserable lives. 'Lec rations for December are granted for only half the time as usual, meaning most of us Reds are subject to the harsh winter blizzards with limited to no heat. Not even a fully-powered stove to keep our food hot. That's why Dad built a fire pit near the house several years back, but without my older brothers around, it's up to me to gather and chop enough wood each night to make it useful. The snowstorms seem to get worse every winter, so I try to gather as much wood as I can as early as I can, starting in late October. Last year, the thieves caught on and started hauling off each week's logs in the middle of the night. Dad and I think it's the Silvers wanting to watch our suffering through the winter like a sick game of " _Who Survives?_ " Mom and Gisa are more forgiving and think the wood is being taken by families who desperately need it. Maybe so, but it makes me feel a hell of a lot less guilty when I steal the townspeople's coats and blankets. Mom usually complains about what I steal so we can get by, but in the dead of winter with temperatures so cold your snot freezes, she has an expected, albeit convenient change of direction in her moral compass.

Then there's the way Cal carried me up the hill and all the way home. He was strangely overheated, though that could definitely be the beers I drank. Honestly, I'm embarrassed with myself. Not because of that lump of shit that couldn't keep his hands to himself; no, that guy I hope was mauled to death by a wolf overnight. If I ever see him again...

The memory of the burst of sizzling light between us pulls me off-track. How the hell did that happen? I'm trying to remember if there were any electric boxes around us, something that could have thrown off sparks of malfunctioned, but it was the middle of the forest. There was none of that around there. It wasn't raining, so it wasn't a thunderstorm, and it didn't happen a second time, which means that had to have been _something_. The unknown is bothering the shit out of me.

"Mare?" Mom's small voice comes from my doorway with no door. My mom still maintains a semblance of respect for our privacy, but it took enough arguments on my part to achieve that. It's kind of hard in a two-bedroom house to have privacy, but the space is too small for us to not have the minimum established boundaries. Acknowledging mine and Gisa's space as our own is one of those boundaries.

"I'm awake, Mom. Just have a headache." _A hangover_ is more like it, but hell if I tell her that.

"I didn't hear you come in last night," she murmurs. She's fishing.

"I was very quiet."

"Well, it must have been late. Your father and I waited up until midnight."

"I lost track of time at Kilorn's." It is the first blatant lie I have ever told anyone in my family. I'm shocked with myself for how smoothly it came out.

"Still, it's very late to be out, Mare. What if a curfew was in place?" Here's the thing about my mom. She isn't confrontational in the least, but that doesn't stop her from getting her point across.

"I'll be in tonight, Mom."

"And you missed school today Now I know you don't like it, but you are going to get yourself into serious trouble if you keep missing class. Mr.—"

"Is it really going to matter when I get conscripted, Mom? Will it make any difference if I miss class once or twice, hell would it matter if I missed every single day up until the guards come in and drag me out to the lines? Because it isn't like they're teaching us gun safety and army tactical skills in those classrooms. They are teaching us useless shit that we won't ever use on a battlefield."

I don't look at her—I can't—but I hear her gasp out a sob and shift her weight against the doorframe. There she remains, crying softly, until I throw the blankets over my face with a huff. I wish I could tell her I didn't mean to upset her, but of course I did. I know what throwing around the word "conscription" does to this family. Mom said when she was a girl, they never sent women into the war. It was shortly before she married Dad that they drafted all Reds of 18 years. The only reprieve was a full-time job that contributed to the State. Gisa would have been guaranteed a waiver. Will she now that her hand is broken? If she is unable to use her nimble fingers like she used to, the Silvers would mercilessly throw her to the wolves of the war. Mom says she thinks it will heal, but Mom also says putting a coin under your pillow after you lose a tooth will give you good luck. Total nonsense.

Eventually I drift back off to sleep and my mom calms down to return to meatless strew for tonight's dinner. When I wake, it's because Kilorn has thrown his bag of books at my feet with every intention of waking me with a start. It pisses me off, but then again, seeing his face and knowing each day is closer to his conscription is what is really bothering me.

"Barrow, missed you in class today."

"Doubt it, Kilorn."

"No really, I did. You are the only classmate that makes me look smart. I actually have to try when you're not there."

So quickly he doesn't see it, I yank the pillow out from under my head and slam it into his face with a satisfying _kerplop_. He resounding chortle makes me laugh until I am sat up, ready to face the day. Whatever is left of it judging by the lowering sun.

"What's with the bruises?" Kilorn gently touches his forefinger to my shoulder, my arm, my elbow, back up to my neck, then as I watch his eyes dipl ower to my breasts, my skin heats into a crimson-plum blush. Everything turns suddenly awkward, so with an unladylike and hopefully unattractive series of grunts, I push myself off the mattress and into a hunched stand.

"Seriously, were you in a fight last night? Oh my god, did you try to steal bread from Granny Lowletter again?"

Another silky lie before I can stop myself. "What does she need the extra loaves for anyway? She saving them to build a new bakery or what?"

"Damn, Mare, she got you good this time! What was it? The baguette sword?"

"The wheat rolls."

Kilorn doubles over, rolling his nasty sweaty self all over my semi-clean bedding. "Gross, Kilorn! Can you roll in your own pig sty?"

He continues laughing until he's wiping tears from the corners of his crinkled eyes. "Ah, whew. The visual of Granny Lowletter chucking brick rolls at you just does it for me, Mare." A few more laughs until he's died down enough to sigh reverently. I know that sigh means he has committed the moment to memory. I would make him laugh at my expense a hundred times just so he could go into the Silvers' war with a hundred joyful memories of me.

I am nursing a killer headache I can't tell anyone about, which means I am reluctantly forced into his scavenging for fish. Reds aren't technically allowed to fish in Silver waters without a work permit, but Kilorn knows of a small creek that connect to the river and guarantees him a good catch. Fish is Kilorn's primary diet, a result of his apprenticeship and the free food he could get along with his wage, and I'm eternally grateful that he can feed himself without worry. My family has always made room for him at our dinner table, but Kilorn is excessively independent having been orphaned a few years ago, and he also knows we can barely feed ourselves as it is. At least once a week I forego my dinner so the others can eat just a little bit more of Mom's typical stew. I pretend that I'm not hungry or I steal other kids' lunch from school and tell them I just ate. If any of them know, which I'm sure my Dad does, then they don't say anything. I'm not surprised that Kilorn fibs the same just to ensure we have enough. When he has a bigger catch than usual, he always shares— _always_. Despite knowing how to preserve fish for himself, Kilorn has never been greedy or selfish. Thank the stars, because there have been times when we have gone days without any real sustenance outside of wilted vegetables in a broth, and it's Kilorn's fish that has seen us through.

If we're caught fishing out here, they will imprison us for 48 hours. It's always on the back of my mind when Kilorn takes me out fishing, but he is certain no one even knows about this creek because of its distance and location. I get why. It smells of rotten land out here—Kilorn says it's called sulphur. The surrounding land is marsh-like, constantly wet and muddy. Combined with the smell, it's easy to mistake as a wasteland—of which Norta has plenty, so this location isn't spectacular to any Silver, or Red for that matter. What it does hold is a breeding ground for substantially meaty fish. It makes me wonder how much of Norta is presumably a "wasteland" with hidden treasures only we Reds know about.

After a while, we've settled into the ground, imprints of our butts sinking into the mud, but this quiet contentment is just what I needed. I can tell Kilorn wants to talk about something; he keeps opening his mouth like the fish we catch, but one sideways glance from me and he shuts it. I could make it clear that I'm not here for chit chats and know Kilorn would drop whatever is on his mind for now, but a sort of guilt gnaws in my stomach at the manipulation. With a sigh I tell him to spit it out.

"I..Mare, I don't really know how to talk to you about this because I know you don't want to hear shit about it, but… Look, we're not going to raise enough money to get me out of conscription, so I just want you to start preparing for what is coming any day now."

"I'll get the money, Kilorn. I swear it."

From the corner of my eye, I see his hand twitch as it reaches toward my leg, but he awkwardly pulls it back and grips his fishing pole until his knuckles turn white. "No, you won't, Mare. It's too much money, not enough time, and besides, with everything going on in Summerton recently, it's not worth the risk."

" _You_ are worth the risk, Kilorn Warren. Can you just shut up about this please?"

"You have a family that needs you, Mare. They need your skills—I mean, true, mine are better but—"

"HA! Warren, I taught you all that you know, and you're nowhere near my level. I am a damn near master thief."

"I didn't know they were handing out such esteemed declarations. Boy, the Royal Court must be very inspired."

I nudge him in the ribs, which gets me a good 'oomph!' as he rubs his side dramatically.

"Seriously, Kilorn, I'll figure something out. I'll convince her to smuggle you out of her, and I'll trade everything I've got to guarantee it. Fishermen's apprentices don't survive war." The statement stings him; I know it because I watch him slump away from me while what can only be described as a proper pout takes up residence on top his tense jaw, set in bitterness, and withdrawn eyes, murky in their emptiness and misplaced anger.

The rest of the afternoon carries on in heavy silence, though I try to dismiss the discomfort with a joke here and there. When he doesn't reciprocate, I go back to my dark thoughts about the bullshit I've brought to my family and the suffering Gisa must endure because of me. Dusk begins filtering through the trees, taking another miserable day and one of the last Kilorn has left in the Stilts. How long until they come for him? It will be any day now, and there is nothing I can do to protect him. He's right; I don't have enough money even after the last couple of nights picking the pockets of tavern regulars. I didn't even get to tell him what happened last night, though maybe that's for the best. Kilorn would go berserk and for what? He's about as confrontational and aggressive as I am reasonable and affectionate. Besides, do I really want to hear a lecture on drinking from stone-cold sober Kilorn?

Like most nights, I invite Kilorn over for dinner and a sleepover, and like most nights, he declines both. ' _Mare, I have two beds and a couch I can sleep on by myself. Why would I want to listen to your dad snore like blizzard storm or sleep on one of the many pillows you've drooled on?'_ He always gives me variations of the same joke, but behind it is soft eyes longing to accept the open-invitation he doesn't feel he deserves.

Tonight, however, Kilorn declines both dinner and the sleepover with an adamant no and a peculiar secretive nature around it. "Just got some stuff to sort out," is his latest, and lamest, excuse. Since I'm not much on company these days anyway, I don't push the issue either.

Climbing into the house is like walking into a room where you know everyone was just talking about you. Dad snaps his mouth closed, and mom makes a series of odd chirps while she turns herself around every which way attempting to find a distraction. Gisa only rolls her eyes and leaves the room without a word.

On the dining table I throw down a string of eight fish. The fridge will keep them for a day or two if we can keep it running with 'lec rations, but it would be better if we could get the freezer to work. Mom won't let any go to waste, and it irritates me that we will have to gorge on fish for the next 5 meals because there's no way to preserve them.

Dad raises his brow at the catch; surely he knows where it comes from and how I get it. Mom, however, clucks her tongue and looks at it with a combined stare of gratitude and disappointment.

"I didn't steal it, Mom, if that's what you're thinking."

"Well you didn't pay for it either, Mare."

I close my eyes to force them to stay in place. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep me from blurting out a nasty remark. Instead I yank the string off the table, the sound of limp fish bodies slapping against each other accentuated by Mom's yelp, and toss them into the empty freezer. I slam the door and keep my hand on the handle until my breaths are even and measured by rhythmic, de-escalating counting.

In a sin-song voice laced with annoyance and mocking, I give it to her. "How about, 'Thank you for looking after us, Mare! Thank you for putting yourself at risk to ensure we can eat more than stale bread and broth stew!'? Anything, Mom, that shows you think of your daughter as more than just your no-good, talentless embarrassment who has to steal to get by."

When a humming disrupts my outburst, my dad rolls over to the fridge, not particularly careful of where my feet are placed. He puts his hand against the freezer like he's about to give us a lecture before looking at Mom and me incredulously.

"You hear that?" he asks. "That's the freezer! I'll be damned, that's the FREEZER! Ha ha! It works again!"

Mom pushes past me, our spat momentarily forgotten as she tests it for herself. "How in this world…?" She turns to me with incredulity in her eyes, assessing me up and down as though I could have anything to do with this. I can hear the buzz of the freezer—actually _hear_ it in my head. A dull whining that edges on giving me a headache, but what's more, I can feel the electricity of it in my body.

"Dad, do you feel that?"

He looks at me curiously, but the light pops on in his head and he answers in a way that eases my strange anxiety. "Oh, that rumbling is just the agitator—the motor in the fridge now that it's powering the freezer, too. It'll vibrate the whole floor, but you'll get used to it. It's just an old hunk of junk."

"It'll use up an awful lot of electricity," Mom laments.

"We'll curfew our lights out a bit earlier then, Ruth. This will help us through the winter when food is harder to come by. Atta girl, Mare!"

I shrug, not really knowing what I did to deserve the praise other than slamming a door shut, but there's a niggling in the back of my head that whispers there's more to it than that. It's the same weird feeling I got last night when that man attacked me. What it could be I have no clue, but coincidences aren't really my thing, so I need to get to the bottom of it. After I rescue Kilorn.

* * *

 **A/N -** Oy, long time, no see! I appreciate everyone's patience; I hate going so long between chapters, killing my once a week rhythm, but life just got so busy, and the timing never felt right to write. You can follow me on Twitter, where I make well-intentioned promises of updates that I hardly keep- evelynturnerff.

For those wondering when _Silhouettes_ is getting an update...let's say early next week. It's coming to an end, that beloved first story of mine, so I want to get the last couple of chapters up in quick succession, and I can only do that if I write them back-to-back.

As always, readers & reviews are so appreciated.


	5. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER 4 – _CAL POV_**

I stare at her mouth for what seems like ages, loving the way she forms her words-the soft Ts, the way she hisses her S's and pops her P's. She'll bite the corner of her bottom lip between thoughts, purse her lips when something annoys her, and the way the tip of her tongue licks the underside of her top lip when she enunciates the L in my name is driving me wild. I'm watching her mouth for so long, grateful that our tall round table offers spares me my dignity, that I don't realize she's repeating my name to get my attention until she moves her face closer to mine and her mouth is close enough that I can feel the warm pants coming from her parted lips.

"Sorry, I just-" I stammer foolishly to an empty end.

A patron bangs on the tavern's door, immediately shocking us both out of our trance and whipping our heads toward the entrance. Another loud series of knocks startle us. Silver officers? Another attack by the rebels? She looks at me wide-eyed and frightened, because she knows. I don't know how, but suddenly it's very clear she realizes what I have been desperate to hide all along. She knows who I am, the Crown Prince of Norta, and she thinks this has something to do with me.

"Mare, it's not what you think!" But she's out of her stool and backing away as far as she can from me. Right behind her, the door is shoved open leaving Mare standing directly in the line of fire for the intruder. I want to shout for her to move but everything turns hazy behind her until she's all I see in the dark room, illuminated brilliantly without the backdrop of chaos behind her. She's beautiful, and I must protect her, I must—

I throw myself into a sitting position, huffing out breaths that burn my lungs while my younger brother stands in the doorway laughing hysterically. One look down at my lap and immediately I know why. No way can I shove off the silk sheets and thin blankets I'm currently under; no reason to rain on Maven's parade by making him jealous.

I growl out a few choice curses between shouts demanding to know the reason he has chosen to barge into my room without permission.

His response comes after a sputtering of laughs, "Bro, I've been knocking. It's already 8. Breakfast has concluded and my Mother was pissed you weren't there to discuss her action plan for today's events. The Queenstrial begins in an hour...unless you want to go like that." He gestures somewhere around my groin and the embarrassing evidence of my dream.

Hell, I can't get him out of here fast enough. With a menacing stalk toward him, I shove his slender if not lanky frame out of my room with a slam of the door in his face. I still hear him laughing on the other side. _Asshole_. But as annoying as he can be, these are the moments to remember, especially since they come so few and far between nowadays. Maven's mother, Elara, tends to hover over every waking moment of his day, bringing a dark cloud that looms around them both. Our playful banter is restricted to rare moments alone, and truthfully, the suffocating nature of Elara on Maven's and my relationship has become worse over the last few months. I know it doesn't escape Maven's notice when he offers an apologetic glance over the dining table every so often, or when he tries to find common ground by slagging her off behind her back after she's made some particularly shitty reference toward my mom.

My mom died before I could really remember her, but I indulge in her presence through memories scattered around Archeon and Summerton, and particularly at Ocean Hill—the Harbor Bay palace given to my mother, untouched by Elara, and adorned with the gold-yellow banners of House Jacos. My Uncle Julian, a historian and my mother's brother, has been my mentor all my life. It is Julian who has given me nearly my entire collection of texts on war and warcraft. Everything, from strategy to recollections of wars from the Old Era. Next to my bike rebuilds, these books are my pride and joy and how I spend my free time when I'm not chasing after reticent Red girls with long brown hair and warm eyes. There isn't a single battle that Julian has not lectured on, and though I get the feeling he detests what he calls a bloodsport, even he relents its necessity towards revolution. Norta's current war is over disputed land and resources against Lakelands. The Lakelands are home to fertile ground and rivers; controlling the rivers allows superior trade and distribution of goods. Norta's advantage is in its tech manufacturing, specifically its production of electricity, but we lack in basic resources such as food, and as such, we have Red slums such as Gray Town and food rations for the Reds are not uncommon. I am confident that when I am King, I will win this drawn-out war and restore Norta to its glory as the light of the world. I want to foster better trade relations, expand Norta's territory to take over countries that struggle in the dark. We could have a Nortan empire at best, but at the very least, becoming self-reliant will improve the quality of Nortan lives tenfold.

In the dining room, Elara glares at me impatiently in front of her now-empty table setting. She makes a snide remark about breakfast being cold, and that's when I notice a full plate at my usual seat. I roll my eyes at her, unbothered that she takes offense to the gesture, and take a seat without comment. Reheating breakfast is a simple matter of picking up my plate. In a second, the meat is sizzling alongside the steaming eggs. Inwardly, I smirk at what I know is a fuming Queen without the upper hand. On the outside, I remain bored and serious, which just irritates her further.

"Yes, well, next time I will have the servant staff to remove your plate if you cannot respect our schedule."

" _Your_ schedule, Elara," I rebuff with a half-mouthful of potatoes. Does she really think I give a fuck?

Fortunately, Maven comes in, breaking the palpable tension with his signature awkward humor.

"The guest floor smells like a vile mix of flowers and chemicals. I was hoping to gather some intel in the form of photographic memory, but I was nearly smothered in the fumes. It could have been a fiery disaster if I so much as sneezed. Didn't see any bare anything. Not even feet."

Just like that, the hostile room dissipates with Maven's inappropriate jokes that even his Mother smiles at him. He's her favorite and also her only so I imagine there's very little he could do to piss her off the same way I do just by breathing in the shared planet's oxygen.

"Maven, some of those girls are 13," I remind him.

Never missing a beat, Maven replies good-naturedly, "We all know Evangeline is taking Queenstrial anyway. Tell her not to damage the runners-up too badly, yeah? Maybe I'll have a decent shot at one of them."

Elara tuts, standing to effectively end the conversation with what she thinks is the final word. "Darling, you could have any one of them. Be thankful you get to _choose_ one of incredible beauty and power; your brother is not so lucky."

If there is one royal tradition I abhor, it is the vapid air of Queenstrial. Women and young girls thrust into the spotlight by their families hoping to marry into an exclusive lineage. They'll fight until they're bloodied and broken, and cruelest of them all will be rewarded with a crown. Unlike Maven, I have no say and no choice. I am to marry the winner, no matter her age or house. Too bad if I'm not attracted to her. Oh well if she hates my guts. My life is not my own as a Crown Prince. This is nothing more than politics, plain and simple, to keep the most powerful on the throne and unchallenged.

My father was the one exception in a history of loveless royal marriages. He lucked out with my mother, even in the end when things got bad. She was the love of his life, but she was also genuine and kind. Evangeline Samos, the expected winner of today's events, is categorically opposite of my mother in every way. And, if I'm to understand court gossip correctly, she will have consorts of her own that will leave me free to focus on the state of the country. Sure, we'll produce at least one heir, but even that won't be out of love. I know it, she knows it, and Norta knows it.

There is a half hour remaining before I'm expected in the King's Box in the arena, so I get dressed while daydreaming of what Mare would be like here. Of course, if she were here as a Red, it would be as a servant in some capacity. I don't see Mare fitting seamlessly in that role, though I did consider it the night we first met. I could pull some weight to get her a job here easily, but then she would see me for who I am, and selfishly, I'm not ready for her to know we are forever aligned to our fates. A Red and Silver together, as friends or lovers, is against all convention. It is the highest of social taboos and goes against my country, my crown. Silvers aren't even meant to look at Reds, so what Mare and I are doing is dangerous, reckless on my part, and definitely rebellious against my better judgment. That said, there's undeniable spark there. I am drawn to her. I want to protect her, even though she has proven she can take care of herself. I want to give her a better life, alleviate her fear of conscription, and I just haven't figured out how to do that while keeping my identity a secret. Seriously though, does she not watch the royal briefings? Read the papers? Is life in the Stilts so far removed that she doesn't know what the Prince of Norta looks like?

"Cal. Cal, you in there?" I'm interrupted by a sharp rap at the door and an urgent voice belonging to Maven. I open the door and Maven rushes in, closing the door and locking it behind him. He looks around the room, though what he's looking for I don't know as he doesn't say. He opens every door, checks the closets, the bathroom, the separate study and library adjoined to my room. Only after he is satisfied that what he is searching for isn't there does he return to my bedroom and explain what the hell is going on.

"Members of that rebel group are in the palace," he explains in whispered words almost too fast for my brain to process. "One of Sentinels caught a trespasser dressing in servant's clothes in a corridor. It's not a coincidence this would happen on Queenstrial of all days."

"No, it makes perfect sense," I reason. "High houses in one cylindrical arena. You need only get an explosive on the ground and it would be total devastation. Shit. Are there more?"

Maven shrugs. "Don't know. Security is rounding up all the Reds in the building. Father ordered us on lockdown until an officer comes to retrieve us. I expect it'll be brutal." He hesitates for a moment, as though he's trying to carefully select the words more for himself than for me. "For the Red servants, I mean. I'm sure most of them have no idea what's going on, and yet they're going to be tried and treated as affiliates."

"We can't be too cautious, Maven. I doubt they all have intel, but someone does. Someone snuck the rebel in. Someone provided him with provisions."

"This is more organized than Father credits them. They've been oppressed for what? Some few hundred years? People get tired of being the dirt at the bottom of an expensive shoe." I almost miss the bitter inflection, but I pretend not to notice it. Why he suddenly cares about the state of affairs for Reds, I don't know.

Still, I roll my eyes, unwilling to entertain Maven's musings of how bad the Reds have it. They live in poverty, I see that, but they are also given fair rations, an education, and opportunity here. In the Lakelands, Reds don't have a work option. They aren't offered education. They make their own means, they're equally drafted into the military to serve as border protection, and Lakelands Royal Court still holds public hangings for weekly offenders. Capital punishment is a commonplace there, for the smallest of infractions. Nortan Reds don't realize how good they really have it comparatively, and now they've gone and squandered it for the rest of them, and for what? What's their cause? A total revolution is out of the question. We're too powerful; too many of us and too few of them. But even I have to admit getting into the palace and organizing an attack is bold—unnervingly bold.

The next knock comes from one of Father's Sentinels who asks that Maven return to his room to await his mother's further instruction while I am to meet Father and Elara down in cells. I can tell Maven is put out, but I haven't the time to offer the salve to his ego in the form of empty words we know do not ring true. I follow the office two floors down to the cold and musty jail. All of the Royal Estates have them, mostly to hold errant Red servants caught stealing, but occasionally Silvers held for treason will await trial in one of these cells when extra attention is needed. Unfortunately for these Reds, they're going to see what extra attention means.

My father greets me with all the formalities of a king in front of a row of subjects. It is cold and mechanical, which is not unusual for my father these days. The Red servants are on their knees, many aghast with terror and confusion. If a traitor is among them, it is hard to decipher from looks alone.

"One of you knows this man." As my father walks and delivers a threat disguised as a monologue, the rebel with the scarlet sash across his neck remains stoic on his knees. A magnetron stands nearby, awaiting my father's signal to tighten the chains wrapped around the man's body. Any second the chains could crush limbs, a torso, his neck or skull. What a bloody sight for servants to see.

"One of you allowed him into my home. Into your quarters. You clothed him. You provided him with information. You will tell me who, or you will watch him die, and then you all will die for aiding him."

Father stops to scan them all one by one with a menacing glare of hatred and disgust. "I will not have treason in my country! If none of you speak, all of you will suffer."

There is panic in their eyes that radiates down to the shiver of fear engulfing their bodies. Most of the servants are women. Women with children and families of their own. They could not have masterminded this. Just as quick as the ignorant and erroneous though came, I curse myself for its weakness. Objectively, it could be any one of them. I do not know these people any better than I know the enemy with the so-called Scarlet Guard.

"Very well," my father bites. With a quick signal, the magnetron tightens the thick links wrapped around the man's wrist to shatter the bones until the manacle has shrunk to the size of a tetrarch. I'm reminded of Mare's little sister; the one Mare was so greatly affected by the first night we met. Whatever strange pang of pity I feel, I push away.

The man's scream is earth-shattering and strikes me as more of a young boy's wail. I step to the side to look closer, though I immediately regret my curiosity. The man isn't a man at all. He couldn't be more than 16, just a kid. Younger than both Maven and me. How could he be so stupid to get roped in this? What could the rebels have offered him in exchange for his life?

The others gasp and press their lips together to stifle their cries—or vomits.

If I didn't know my father and his mechanisms as much as I do from studying his every move, I maybe wouldn't have seen the tiny flinch the corner of his right eye gave upon hearing the bones snap like weak twigs.

A deep-skinned Red, one who has been with our family for a number of years, chooses to speak first. "P-please, Your Highness. I-I-I think he found them in the wash basin, where extra uniforms are k-kept." The woman stutters so much that spit dribble down her chin, but she does not dare to move her arms to wipe it away. "W-we do not know him. He does not belong to us."

I find her mannerisms peculiar. Not that she is scared shitless, because she absolutely should be, but that her eyes are set in fierce determination and if I am not mistaken, a sort of pained resignation. If she knows him, she will not risk the others' lives to expose him. Everyone in this room knows his fate is doomed. _After Elara dissects his brain for information_ , I wince. But interestingly, they do not take up his cause with him. A rebel without an alliance is not much a rebellion.

I know better than to suggest their dismissal aloud, but fortunately, my father is already keen to my train of thought. If we torture or otherwise punish all of these Reds, we _create_ the alliance we seek to disband. Something niggles at me, however. Sending a lone soldier in this suicide mission is not tactical, yet the Scarlet Guard thus far have operated in means that indicates heavy preparation and meticulous intention. This is too sloppy. It's possible they don't have the resources to organize a massive attack capable of bringing down Queenstrial, but one thing you learn early on as a burner is where there is smoke, there is fire.

Before I can take my father aside to question it, a large eruption booms overhead. The walls around us tremble, and a thick gas blooms from the stairwell and into the chamber. The gas is potent, sending everyone hacking loudly and scrambling for fresh air. My eyes burn and water, blurring my vision, but I am hesitant to ignite should the gas be flammable.

Around me, cries and squeals of the Reds echo off the wall and stir more confusion. "Cover your nose and mouths with your shirts!" I order. Another loud boom, and the gas becomes impossibly thicker. I grasp for the wall and test a tiny flicker low to the ground. Immediately, the flame is snuffed out.

"Cal, move out! Get out of here!" my father shouts nearby, but I cannot see him.

Around us, wails tremble mercilessly with a series of explosions. Are they blowing up the entire castle? I grab the walls until my feet meet the stairs, and for my efforts, I take the butt of a rifle to my face, fracturing my nose and spilling blood down my chin. With quick reflexes, I grab the firearm and person attached to it, but the figure's foot lands in my stomach while they wrench their gun free. I can just barely make out the Reds huddled to the floor, coughing and choking on the air around them, but this isn't meant to kill. No, this serves as a distraction. I scan through the fog for the figure and its commodity but only find empty chains on the ground.

"Sentinels, my father! Get my father out of here. Leave the rest!" There is no use in worrying about Reds who cannot fend for themselves, let alone strike back. They'll be of no harm to us especially now. My father is whisked away by Sentinels, roaring at flames that refuse to ignite in this condition. Meanwhile, I am after the errant figure sweeping up the steps. I refuse to be caught off-guard again, so when I see a foot coming to sweep my legs out from underneath me, I yank it down and send it toppling down a few steps with me. The now-free rebel child takes aim at me, but I catch his good fist and twist until I can feel the bones crack. While I may not be able to start a fire, I can still burn. My hands grab his arms and heats his skin just before boiling. He howls in pain and hits the ground beneath me. There is no time to look for the second one. As the smoke begins to clear, the rebel's gun aims straight at my gut. I react quickly, moving aside to avoid a direct hit, though I still feel the bullet graze through my military coat. When the smoke has finally abated, I see the rebel who has been lucky enough to land three blows against the Prince of Norta. I'm taken aback by her immediately. A _she_ , with blonde hair and blue eyes, very fair skin, and a deep-set silvery scar cutting across her face and hidden beneath another one of those crimson scarves. Her eyes bore into mine with striking ferocity, and she aims again, but this time I grab the barrel of her gun and heat it until she is forced to relieve herself of it. The victory is short-won, because the boy beneath me has regained his senses and uses a concealed knife to stab through my knee. I throw flames ahead of me, intending to block the woman in, but she darts past them without hesitation or fear. I shout for any guards within the area to get her while I dig the blade from me knee, leaving me to the struggling and scrambling boy fighting to climb up the stairs. I pull him back, dragging him down to the jail cells where the Reds huddle against the far wall. My intention is to throw him in a cell, wait for my Father and Elara to take care of his interrogation minus the audience, but they will never get that far.

As soon as I release him into the cell, the boy's hand quickly fishes something from his breastbone pocket. His palm slaps against his mouth, but his words are loud and clear.

"Rise, red as the dawn." He speaks to _them_ , passing his eyes over each and every one of them before he collapses to the ground in a state of fits. Foam pools out of his mouth, followed by blood that pools around his head.

In that image, I cannot shake the sense of foreboding that this is not the last time I will hear these words nor watch Reds die for them.

* * *

 **A/N - Without much fanfare here, yes, it's me. I'm back at it. Chapter 5 is done, and it goes up on Friday.**


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